


A Serious Question

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [35]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Layer upon layer of fog lapped at the shore of granite and stone, wave after wave breaking upon the sharp edge of upwards winding stairs, even as the foam eroded at the edges, taking away every little pit of unprotected ground it found. Taking a long drag, he glanced down at the world below, still shrouded in an impenetrable mist shroud. A puff of smoke lost itself in the fog as soon as it left his lips. The cigarette burned slowly, giving him time to think, time to bring himself into a good enough place that he might endure the coming interview with some grace.
Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/336412
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	A Serious Question

Layer upon layer of fog lapped at the shore of granite and stone, wave after wave breaking upon the sharp edge of upwards winding stairs, even as the foam eroded at the edges, taking away every little pit of unprotected ground it found. Sitting at the high, arching window on a low settee of an indistinctive brown colour with beige stripes running across the faded velvet, Rhaegar leaned forth once more, not quite attending the conclusion of the discussion he was supposed to have been part of. A rather loud cough caught his attention, snapping him out of his reverie. He looked then towards his father and blinked, distressed by the sight. Even in the warm glow of artificial light filling the director’s office, he looked a man well beyond his age, weighed down and old before his time. Deep lines ran down that familiar face, a face Rhaegar could almost see reflected back at him whenever he chanced to look into a mirror.

All well then. “Good. Let us get you settled in then,” the head of the institution broke the tense silence. Rhaegar’s were drawn to the man due to his movement rather than his voice, though both were equally reprehensible in their own way. Pycelle was a small, rather thin man, with a long, snow-white beard and beady small eyes shining eerily whenever they caught the light. His slightly stooped frame spoke of years of bending over his patients’ beds and the trembling hands shaking upon the walking stick had cut into a great many bodies, he did not doubt. By dint more prepared to deal with ailments of the body than those of the soul and his idea of mending the distemper of humours being operating on the brain, Pycelle was somewhat tempered by the other of his colleagues more willing to allow that different treatments might be desirable with different patients. Or at the very least that cutting open all skulls and breaking open every ribcage was simply not feasible.

The radical insufficiency of the comfort the thought gave him was all he might cling to in the moment when life came at him, sword in hand, ready to gut him. And he would stare life in the eyes and lift his comfort by way of shielding himself. Rhaegar stood to full height, towering over the head of the institution. His own father he had left behind with regards to height, ever since was six and ten or thereabout. Though he did not suppose his sire who knew him as well as he did might blanch as the doctor before him did. But for himself, Rhaegar merely reached for the valise at his feet and hoisted it up, refusing aid when it was offered to him.

The room they took him too was quite charming, he allowed, inspecting the surroundings with care. It was rather on the barren side, with only the basic necessary pieces of furniture, more so fitted to allow for comfort while ensuring the patients could do little to harm themselves and others. Not that many had attempted such and remained within the halls of the Citadel. Setting down the baggage in the middle of the room, Rhaegar walked to the balcony doors, opening them wide to allow the wintry air within. The fog, like a beggar holding a hand out for alms, followed.

He turned to look at his father, standing in the doorway, outlined by the warm light spilling in from the hallway. The man stepped in hesitantly, the door remaining wide open in his wake. “It looks a fine room,” his sire commented somewhat stiffly. “I’ll be more at ease now that I have seen it with my own eyes.” Rhaegar cocked his head to the side, watching him intently. “You could at least say something.”

“What is there to say?” came his own reply, loud in the tense silence swirling about them. He straightened himself, taking one step towards his father. “You had best be on your way then; mother will worry if you are late.”

Aerys unsurprisingly listened. With a nod and an odd little motion jerking him from facing Rhaegar to facing the hallway, his father left, allowing the good Maester Pycelle to step within in his place. “Maester Marwyn should be by in an hour or so; last I heard he was detained by some manner of accident. It should, nevertheless, be sorted out in good time.”

It was not as though he much cared one way or another. Rhaegar suspected that no matter how much this Maester Marwyn spent working on him he would be no better for it. Accepting Pycelle’s explanation nonetheless, he was much relieved when the man finally left and shut the door in his wake.

Left alone at long last, Rhaegar rummaged in the pocket of his coat for his pack of cigarettes. He pulled it out and retrieved one, going out on the balcony to light it up. Taking a long drag, he glanced down at the world below, still shrouded in an impenetrable mist shroud. A puff of smoke lost itself in the fog as soon as it left his lips. The cigarette burned slowly, giving him time to think, time to bring himself into a good enough place that he might endure the coming interview with some grace. At least he had that, he told himself, encouraging the bitterness to slink back into the dark corner it had sprung from.

Once done with the cigarette, he returned into the room, closing the door to the outside world. There was little enough to do beside sleep, and bone-weary as he was, sleep sounded like just the thing. Thus Rhaegar discarded his travel clothes and donned his sleeping garments, climbing beneath the cool covers awaiting him. A small shiver ran down his spine as he settled down. No matter, it would be warmer soon. He slept soon enough, carried outside the sight of reason and control and found himself falling back in time, the next thing he knew, he was sliding down in deep mud.

[Continuation](https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/1IRVbRrYMTPyU1ofuBoQQlencClku5kNv)


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